


Dreaming the Void

by casey270



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Community: bbtp_challenge, F/M, M/M, Multi, PWP, dreamy sex, trippy sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 07:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casey270/pseuds/casey270
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dreamy, trippy, anonymous sex</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreaming the Void

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2013 [Bring Back the Porn Challenge](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/bbtp_challenge). Go check out all the amazing porn offerings there.
> 
> Special thanks to leela_cat for beta-ing this at the last second and making wonderful suggestions.
> 
> And to snowstormskies for helping me put this together and not give up.

 

White noise surrounds the touches. Static beats a rhythm against his skin. He's alone, but not really. He's being worshiped, loved, made love to. His mind is hyper focused, but fuzzy and muzzy, and each sensation lives outside of reality.

He's not sure where he is, or if it even matters. His lover - lovers? - is gentle to the point of torture and patient enough to drive him insane, while they still demand more, faster, harder. He's been suspended over the chasm between foreplay and fucking for longer than he can comprehend - wanting to fall, but needing to soar.

He’s floating, with no sense of up or down, top or bottom, free from the constraints and boundaries of life as he’s always known it. Everything is everywhere, and it’s right in its perfection.

He feels the glide of smoothness across his belly and wonders if it's silk this time. He's not sure if he likes it more than the roughness that made his skin burn just minutes - hours? - ago, but it's different and cool, and he wants everything.

He wants the hands and the lips to lead to more. He doesn't care if he fucks or gets fucked, but he has to have it soon. It’s not his place to demand, though. He’s there to take what they give him and give what they command. He's not allowed to come without permission, and he's trying to be so very, very good.

He feels fingers caressing his hips, his back, his ass; their touch almost tentative in their reverence. He tries to spread his legs wider to tempt them to go lower, deeper, inside, but his body isn't his to command. He gave it up to them in exchange for being able to live in the elementary awareness of the moment.

The tempo rocks through all his senses, dragging him into the music they're creating, making him want to match its beat, but he's at whatever mercy they decide to show him. He's blind and deaf to what’s before him, seeing and hearing only what they give to him. He's living in intermission, and he’s time itself.

The touches turn more demanding, pulling him further into himself, and he opens up and lets his emotions flow. There's a hand - or maybe a mouth - on his dick, and it's walking him even closer to the edge. He feels fingers - or maybe a fist - breaching his hole, and his mind shatters with the push inside of him, burning with pain and pleasure. His dick is buried in warm, wet intensity, and he doesn’t care if it’s a mouth or whatever.

The reality of his unreality captures him and holds him, whispering secrets of the universe so quietly that he can't hear them, but he feels them. He feels them pounding into him; their hard, quick thrusts and snaps stealing his breath. The soft, slow way he fucks up into the waiting orifice guiding him home. He's living - breathing, experiencing - multiple realities, each as real as any of the others. He counts them off: one, two, five - but it doesn't matter. He's living them all.

Slowly - so very slowly - he realizes he’s being touched all over at once. There might be a multitude of lovers, or a single lover with a multitude of magic. He feels icy tingles and fiery trails, and he begs to give up and give in.

His body trembles with the tension of not falling until he’s told he can, and drops of pure need spring from him and add to the stream that’s trying to pull him under. He’d be weeping if he could, but they haven’t granted that to him.

Instead, he holds on, taking it all in until he feels the first tiny fissure starting; the tiny cracks ripping apart every defense and boundary he has as they grow wider. He thinks he’ll shatter completely soon, and he pleads for the elysian release he craves.

When the permission comes, he’s almost past the point of being able to take advantage of it. His body and soul rage in frustration before he feels the tightening and gathering in the pit of his belly. The muscles of his body contract as he pours everything that he is into his lover, and even the reality - realities? - that has been granted to him disappears.

He lives in a gray void for eternity or seconds or minutes before he comes back to himself. He feels a satisfied sigh surround him, touching his essence, and a rightness in his world. He closes his eyes, realizing that he can see once again, and wonders if he’ll remember any of this when he wakes.


End file.
